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Chapter nineteen

Eric

B eyond the Whistleport Ice Arena lobby, blades carved familiar patterns into the ice while voices bounced off high ceilings. Coaches barked corrections in clipped syllables while kids shrieked with laughter as they windmilled their arms before spectacular tumbles.

Nervous excitement made my stomach flutter. Wes stood beside me on the concrete walkway, hands buried so deep in his jacket pockets that his shoulders hunched forward. He studied the bronze dedication plaque mounted beside the entrance.

In memory of those who taught us that ice cradles dreams.

He turned toward me. "Well, that's not heavy-handed at all."

Wes transferred his weight from one foot to the other. That meant his knee was bothering him, or he was working up the courage to face something that scared him senseless.

"You know, I'm not even sure my ankles remember how to skate."

The comment was lighthearted enough, but his voice trembled. It was impossible to know whether his skate abilities were still intact.

I wanted to say something profound to bridge the gap between his fear and the ice. Eloquence was nowhere to be found, so I simply said, "Then let's remind them."

He glanced at me and then reached for the door handle. I followed him into the arena's embrace.

The rental counter clerk barely glanced up when Wes requested size eleven skates, her fingers already moving toward the appropriate cubby with the efficiency of someone who'd fitted thousands of feet. Wes smiled when she handed them over. They were worn black leather and soft with age.

"These are decent."

He sat heavily on a bench near the locker rooms. He pulled off his work boots, revealing wool socks that had seen better decades, and flexed his toes against the rubber mat.

I laced up my pair—serviceable rentals that smelled faintly of industrial disinfectant. Wes lifted his right skate and examined the blade before ensuring the laces weren't frayed.

He slipped his foot into the boot. "Last time I wore these, I was still a kid who thought hockey was forever."

I leaned forward to help with the left skate when I noticed him favoring his knee. "Tighter?" I asked.

"Yeah, ankles need the support."

I drew the laces snug. When I tied them off, Wes's breathing changed—slower and deeper, like he was grounding himself in the moment.

He stood and tested his balance on the rubber matting. The skates transformed his posture, adding height and changing how his weight distributed. He looked like someone who belonged in the arena.

"Ready?"

Wes nodded toward the tunnel. "Let's see if I remember how to stay upright."

The rink opened before us in a sweep of pristine white, marked only by the lazy patterns of a dozen other skaters carving their paths into the surface. A group of teenagers clustered near center ice, attempting tricks that their coordination couldn't quite support.

Along the far boards, a middle-aged couple held hands while they navigated figure-eights. The sound was pure winter music—steel singing as it cut through the ice.

Wes paused at the gate, one hand gripping the boards while he stared out at the rink. The tendons in his neck stood out sharp against his collar.

He reached one foot forward. "This was a terrible idea."

I wanted to say something encouraging to ease his tension, but all the words I found were inadequate. I joined him when he placed the other foot on the ice and let my presence speak for itself.

He wobbled with the first step. Right foot forward, weight transfer, left foot pushing.

Wes looked like he was learning to walk on a foreign planet.

His ankles wobbled, overcorrecting for balance that used to be automatic.

The years had buried the grace I'd glimpsed in old newspaper photos beneath layers of caution and rust.

I held out an arm. "Easy."

Then, something kicked in. Maybe it was the third stride or the fourth. His shoulders dropped half an inch. His arms found their natural counterbalance. The rigid line of his spine began to curve into something more fluid.

I drifted toward the rink's edge, giving him space while staying close enough to bear witness. He completed one cautious lap, staying close to the boards. For the next one, he executed longer strides. By the third lap, he'd lifted his head high enough to take in the other skaters.

Watching him find his rhythm was like watching someone remember how to breathe. The transformation was magnetic—his shoulders settled, and his stride lengthened with each lap.

Finally, with the fourth lap, his body remembered what it used to know. His crossover at the corner was smooth and natural. His expression gradually transformed, too, the furrow between his brows slowly dissolving.

I watched for signs of pain in his knee, but he moved with ease. When he glided past me, he was almost smiling.

"How's it feel?"

He didn't answer immediately while he carved a wider turn that took him toward center ice. When he circled back, there was a spark in his eyes I'd never seen before.

"Like coming home."

When he said it, the spark in his eyes hit me square in the chest. I'd fallen for the gruff hermit on Ironhook, but watching him reclaim this part of himself was like seeing him burst into full color for the first time.

The door to the lobby swung open, and something about the change in sound caught my attention. It wasn't mere noise—it was layered and bright, full of motion. Laughter rose above the hum of skates, and the energy in the rink tilted.

"What the hell is that sound?" Wes muttered, squinting toward the far side of the ice.

Then I heard it. Ziggy's laugh, high and unmistakable, rang out across the rink. The cavalry had arrived.

Ziggy was the first I spotted—charging across the ice like a sugar rush in motion, arms flung wide as if he could gather the entire arena into one hug. He attempted a spin, flailed halfway through, and somehow stayed upright.

"Well, holy shit," he called out, breathless. "Is that who I think it is, or am I concussed again?"

Kade followed more slowly, skating backward while guiding a tiny kid in a puffy jacket across the ice with one hand. He gave us a calm, grounded smile that said everything was right with the world.

Behind them, Silas swept into view like he'd never left, hoodie strings bouncing as he weaved through slower skaters with practiced ease.

Rory glided into the mix with a clipboard already in hand and his whistle hanging from a lanyard. He looked every bit the coach, but his eyes sparkled when he saw us.

Then came Brooks. He emerged from the shadows near the tunnel, his strides long and unhurried, like he had all the time in the world. He didn't announce himself. He didn't have to. The ice recognized him—and so did everyone else.

Wes glided to a stop, spraying ice crystals in a perfect arc. The move was flawless. Ziggy blinked like he'd seen a ghost with NHL credentials.

Kade added his voice, "Good to see you both again. I didn't know you could skate, Wes."

"The hermit of Ironhook returns," Silas joked. "Hope you're not expecting to stay anonymous skating like that."

Wes's response surprised me. Instead of the defensive humor I'd expected, he smiled—a real one that crinkled the corners of his eyes.

"Anonymous was the plan." He gestured toward the handful of other skaters scattered across the ice. "Figured I could blend in with the crowd."

Rory snorted. "Dude, you threw a hockey stop that would make my varsity team weep with envy. Pretty sure your cover's blown."

Ziggy attempted another spin, and it turned out more graceful. My skin prickled, but Wes caught my eye and winked.

We all drifted into an easy formation, moving around the ice like we'd been skating together for years. Wes participated. He wasn't merely tolerating the conversation. He contributed his own dry observations that made everyone laugh.

Movement near the boards caught my attention. A figure pushed off from the gate with the kind of effortless power that spoke of professional training. Brooks Bennett glided toward us, his strides eating the ice in smooth, measured beats.

Our loose formation naturally widened to accommodate the newcomer. Ziggy straightened slightly, and even Silas made space for the former NHL player. Brooks easily commanded respect without demanding it.

He turned toward Wes. "Hunter, right? I remember you—lefty with a wicked backhand."

Wes replied quietly. "Didn't think anyone remembered me."

Brooks moved closer. "I always remember the ones who lit up the ice, even if it was a short-lived spark."

Rory joined the circle. He held a clipboard covered with what looked like practice schedules and player evaluations.

"I remember back when Brooks told me about you. He said you had instincts that coaches couldn't teach."

Wes's face flushed. "That was a long time ago."

Brooks rubbed his chin. "Skills like that don't disappear. They only step out of the spotlight and wait."

Wes was still watching the rink, his eyes following a young boy attempting a wide turn but drifting too far inside. Without even realizing it, Wes muttered, "He needs to widen his base. He's leaning too much on the inside edge."

Brooks, beside him, raised an eyebrow. "You still see everything."

Wes looked a little sheepish. "It's habit. Can't help noticing when someone's about to fall."

Rory chuckled. "Funny. That's precisely the kind of eye we could use."

Wes turned toward them, surprised. "For what?"

Rory gestured with his clipboard toward a group of parents at the edge of the rink. A mom knelt beside a girl who was clutching the boards.

"We're expanding the youth program," Rory said. "Interest has gone way up. Many of these kids are trying hockey for the first time, and their parents are figuring out they don't need private coaching to get them started right."

Brooks added, "We've got the numbers, but not enough people who know how to see the game. Not only the drills—but the real stuff. The stuff you pointed out without thinking."

Wes blinked. "I was just—"

"Exactly," Rory said. "You weren't performing. You were teaching without even trying."

"I don't know if I have anything left to teach."

I said, "You helped that kid on Main Street yesterday. His whole skating style changed with one adjustment."

Brooks's eyebrows rose. "What kind of adjustment?"

"Grip position." Wes pantomimed holding a stick. "He was choking up too high on the shaft, fighting the stick instead of working with it."

Rory smiled. "That's what we need. Not someone who'll try to turn every kid into a future NHL star, but someone who can help them fall in love with doing it right."

Wes was quiet as he looked around at the other skaters moving across the ice. I watched his face.

"I'll think about it."

It was enough for Brooks. "It's all anyone can ask."

Wes allowed himself to imagine a future that included more than solitary work on island maintenance. The possibility looked good on him.

A voice boomed from the stands above us.

"Well, I'll be damned!"

We all turned toward the sound, necks craning upward to locate its source. Dottie Perkins, queen of local gossip, stood in the bleachers three rows up, hands planted firmly on her hips, surveying our group like a general reviewing troops.

"I thought you were a myth," she called out. "Like Bigfoot, only crankier."

Ziggy snorted so hard he nearly lost his balance. Dottie wasn't finished. She descended from the stands and stepped onto the ice with the confidence of someone who'd navigated frozen surfaces since before most of us were born.

She wore skates, and they were ancient leather things that looked like they'd undergone resoling multiple times, but her movements were steady and sure as she glided directly toward Wes.

"Mrs. Perkins," he managed, and then he gasped as she wrapped him in a hug that could have doubled as a wrestling hold.

"Don't you Mrs. Perkins me, Wesley Hunter. We all missed you."

When she finally released him, Wes looked slightly dazed, like he'd barely escaped from a benevolent tornado. There was something else in his expression—affection.

It struck me then—this wasn't a reunion. It was a passing of the torch. Only nobody had passed it. It had waited for Wes to return.

All remaining tension dissolved. Silas laughed openly, and Rory bit his lip to maintain his professional demeanor. Kade grinned at the spectacle of the tiny woman effortlessly bulldozing through Wes's carefully constructed defenses.

A little girl, maybe seven, broke away from her father and started skating directly toward our group. She was moving too fast, arms windmilling, panic growing in her eyes. Without hesitation, Wes glided forward and caught her.

"Easy there, speed demon." He steadied her. "Let's get you back to your dad."

I watched him guide her across the ice, patient and sure. This was who he'd been before the world convinced him otherwise. It was who still he was underneath.

Wes and I drifted to the boards and watched the rink around us.

We watched kids carving wobbly figure-eights while their parents offered encouragement from the sidelines.

Teenagers attempted tricks with ambition that sometimes exceeded their abilities, and Brooks demonstrated a drill while Rory scribbled notes on the clipboard.

Wes watched it all with wonder in his eyes. "Feels almost normal."

"You're going to say yes."

Wes turned his head toward me. "To what?"

"The coaching thing. You're going to help them with the youth program."

He was quiet as he watched more skaters. "Maybe," Wes said. His voice was soft but sure. "It feels like something I could try... without breaking anything important."

Around us, the rink pulsed with life—kids tumbling and getting back up, blades sketching wild loops into clean ice, and a father laughing as his daughter wobbled into his arms.

I turned to Wes just in time to catch the look on his face. It wasn't only joy. It was awe—like he'd found something he hadn't realized he'd lost.

And in that moment, I didn't have to wonder whether he'd say yes.

He already had.